Diaries
by arrant
Summary: Letters from Erik to Christine.
1. Chapter 1

Christine! Oh, how I wish you could've seen it. It was this evening; you were no doubt preparing for the performance. I was there, of course (I never miss a performance, my dear … what else do I have to be proud of? But oh, seeing you is so lovely; it is so very lovely. Ah! Again you have completely enraptured me, and you are not even here. I fear to think what would happen if I had your presence at my side; my brain would be rendered dumbfounded. I jest, love. Your presence at my side would be so much more than a state of anxious irrationality. … Someday I will find words to describe how my heart feels at the thought of you by my side. Such decadence. But on with my story.); I saw your performance, and need I tell you how ravishing you were? But I was graced with a few spare moments before the opera was to begin, so I took a stroll. Not in the streets, mind you, but on a little hidden trail down by the river. Someday I will take you there, Christine.

At twilight, the moment I was there (how lucky I am!), the trees seem to bow to the last blazing rays of sun before night sweeps across the sky with glittering entrails of stars. The water shimmers; it nearly invites you to slip away with it into the deep purple and gold hues. It is hard to resist the pull of something so alluring. All is quiet (for few know of this spot; the earth keeps it out of view; it locks it up in green shrubs and dusty orange leaves.) But oh, it was so beautiful. It was as if everything was silent simply to preserve that instant; even the birds dare not sing for fear of shattering that fleeting moment of harmony. But tonight there was a bird, Christine, and it cried pitifully in defeated anguish as it lay on the ground, tattered and alone. I had not let my gaze wander long to find it; it had fallen near the dirt path (did I blaze that trail myself? I know of no one else who frequents the place), and as I approached I looked up, and amidst the pale green and yellow leaves I spotted the nest that must have been his home. Such a small creature he was! His feathers were white, dirtied only by the sand that had embraced him as he fell to the ground.

I bent down and peered at him intently; childish, I know. He emitted such soft cries; do birds sigh? I reached out a hand, longing to lift him from the cold and brittle dirt, but I hesitated. His small orbs (obsidian beads they were; so very tiny) frantically latched onto my own; I could not read that poor bird's face. Did he desire my help? Did he simply wish to be left alone? Such large thoughts for such a tiny creature. I cursed myself and reached out; I took him into my hands. His feathers were as soft as your hands, Christine, and just as delicate. How extraordinary, I thought, to be holding a baby bird, victim to the very earth that nurtured him. It seemed cruel, and I whispered and sang softly to him. I traced my fingers gently across his feathers, and he stayed; he was warm in my palms. He was but a light weight in my hand, but his small, searching eyes clutched my heart and kept me silent. Something so small; why did he allow me to hold him? Oh, Christine, if only you had been there! Perhaps I only imagined his contentness or the warmth in my palms, but I know I felt a smile reach my lips and I know he heard the soft murmurs I whispered.

I could not remain there forever, for though I was captivated, I had not so soon forgotten your performance, dearest. I rose back to my feet, still cradling my companion close to my chest. Oh, the bonds that can form so quickly, with such fragility. I looked up and again spied his nest; it was within reach; I could return him to his home. I smiled, feeling quite delighted, and enjoying the stars that were beginning to dazzle in the sky. I looked back down, still lulling the small creature in a hushed tone. But he was still; he felt limp in my palm. His eyes remained open, but I already knew that he saw no more. I stood in silence for a moment, feeling the sun drown under the horizon, draining all color and warmth with it. I said a silent prayer, and asked God to give flight to the small bird's soul. I whispered encouragingly to him; I told him all was well. I put him in his nest anyway; I thought he would be safest there. His tangible form, at least. He reminded me of you, Christine. But I watched you on the stage and I reveled in the melody of your voice, and I imagined your hands warm in mine.

Please don't go limp in my palm, Christine. Please don't make me perform an Act of Contrition for you. It's difficult, but I will content myself to watch you from afar, I will not cage you if you swear never to leave me. Grant me your existence, and I will grant you your freedom. Such cruelty, but is it not doused in sugar? You were lovely tonight, Christine. I await your next performance with an unquenchable thirst.


	2. Chapter 2

I reminisced today, Christine. I thought back to those endless days when I was your tutor, simply a formless voice that could only exalt you, your talents; you had nothing to fear. I remember them fondly, those lessons – you would sing, oh, how you would sing. No greater gift has ever been bestowed upon my senses, you realize. Even as a child, a young, innocent child (could you possibly be any more innocent?), you could sing to bring the stars falling from the sky. Perhaps that is why I have been wishing on shooting stars as of late. I wonder if you remember those days, Christine, the same way I do. You were so fearless – your only anxiousness was that you would displease me. A petty thought, my dear. Your soul would never allow you to falter, and your heart was never faint.

I can declare this all as factual, because I can read your eyes as simply as I can ready any novel. Sometimes they glitter, sometimes they blaze, sometimes they dance and sometimes they cry. And sometimes they glitter with unshed tears and sometimes they dance nervously as you try to hide the blazing flames that lunge at your soul. But on those days when we sang … your eyes were so beautiful. They were so vibrant; so alluring. They were invigorated with the sweet melody we created, and they blazed an entire spectrum of colors. I do love your eyes, Christine.

It's a pity I cannot see them as often as I used to; it's a pity they don't look up to me with that same spellbound admiration. I miss it; I miss your voice so eagerly melding with my own, and I miss feeling you so close; our visceral beings touching and reaching a state of utter completeness. Do you remember? Do you ever feel that aberrant glow anymore? I know you are feeling something, for when I see you on the stage you are so alive. But what fuels that new flame; what is your new sustenance borne of? I wish I knew, because I can't seem to get past what we've created. Sometimes I wonder how easy it was for you to smile and go on pursuing your life; fulfill your destiny. And then I wonder why I have made so little progress. And it's ironic, too, I believe.

You live here; you reside in the opera house. How easy it would be to capture you and crush the shadows that still linger; I have no doubt that your light, your simple presence, would send them skittering back from whence they came. But I made a promise, and you have unconsciously upheld your end of the vow that I have spurred between us. I will not steal you away. But I must say that there are times I wish I could; there are times when his arms don't seem to hold you right. And my own ache, and I can do nothing but curse the wretchedness of it all. I wonder if you have shown him the roses I leave for you. I certainly hope not, dear, for he has not the capacity to see past the satin ribbon and bloody roses. He doesn't share in the fleeting moments and unspoken words that are contained in those flowers. He does not see how they are laced in tenderness and undying affection. Do you see it anymore, Christine? It slips so easily from your fingers, my rose, and it remains unseen on your dresser for days. Sometimes I wonder what I have done wrong.

Is it my idleness? Is it that promise that holds me back; those barbed words that I have foolishly sworn to stand by? No, perhaps I am only becoming too much of a dreamer, wishing you would return me feelings when I have vowed to keep a distance between us. And then I see you, and my heart is twisted and wrung dry and still threatens to overflow. Is it truly love that you have found? Are you simply in his arms to avoid the dangerous, bewildering emotions you may have felt ignite when we sang? Perhaps it is easier for you to lie and completely deny all of this, because you have someone to hold and comfort you; you have someone to drown out the voices that echo and cry in your head. But I don't, my love, I have only you. Do you see this strange, qualmish circle we have drawn?

Sometimes I wish for more than one shooting star to fall in a single evening. One for you, so that you may be strong and well and attain your highest dreams; and one for me, so that I might hold your hand along the way.


	3. Chapter 3

And then I begin to wonder; I let my mind dissolve, simply. Why burden myself with these thoughts when they give me nothing in response to my questions? I can delve no further. You are so cruel, Christine. But in that same instance I must also say that it is what keeps me here; yes, it is what makes me thrive. Do you realize how completely you have me? Do you see that my soul is yours, and that it will forever be with you? I speak the truth, I'm afraid. And perhaps I could live with that honesty; I could content myself with that distance (and even as I write those words, dearest, I see how terribly wrong they are.)

But what I cannot bear are the tantalizing gifts you bestow upon me. I cannot bear how close you are; I cannot bear you pulling away. God, it is like being offered a sweet slice of pie after years of starvation (for I have been starving for years), and feeling your fingertips brush against its lush surface before watching, helplessly perhaps, as someone younger, swifter, leaner, stronger, containing more confidence, reaches out and takes it from your searching fingers. I don't know how many times I can play that game, Christine. I doubt I will ever be swift enough. But alas! I do not have any doubt that my hands will always be searching; pleading, maybe? And nothing else will satiate me; I have but one source of nurturance. This is plain knowledge to both of us.

Maybe it means nothing to you that I am only alive (need I explain?) when you are close to me; when you are so close to me. Contradictions, is that all I can offer you? I'm afraid I may not be able to keep my promise, Christine. Because I remember your hand in mine, and I remember so fondly your willingness to descend into my shadows. I remember your eyes; I remember your gaze locked in mine. I remember your fragility, and I remember how I showed you comfort; I remember how you accepted it. But it was your hand it mine; it was your undying trust; it was that illumination in your eyes. What was that, Christine?

Because for me, that day, those moments; that was the single most delicious thing I have ever had the blessing to experience. It was a first chance, my only chance! It infuriates me how easily it slipped away. What I wouldn't give to feel you close, Christine. But it is not enough to wish; it is not enough to vow empty sacrifices. What good is a sacrifice if it only serves as my own release? Give me another chance; oh, how wonderful it would be to have one more try to make you feel the beauty in my darkness (I know it's there.) If only you could see me! Turn away from the gilded world you know and taste the honesty of what I can offer you. Though I can see how hollow glamour may be more appealing than the fetid authenticity I must revel in.

Forget it, dear. I know not what I say.


	4. Chapter 4

I am lightheaded and clumsy. I feel as light as a flake of snow. But then my head, as if to mock me, will grow heavy and remind me that I am grounded to this spot. I've not been ill in a long while. Perhaps I'm only tired. But, Christine, I do not wish to sleep! Even if it would alleviate all of these ailments ("all"? Why do I speak as if there are many? Only my head aches), I would not rest. Need I say what one thing would serve as my antidote? Ah, but you would not know of my illness. Is this an illness? Oh, how my head throbs; it sends resonating echoes through my skull. I do wish I could speak to you, dearest. One is not meant to keep emotions and questions (unanswerable as they may be) pent up behind whatever wall it is I've built.

Is it not ironic – an architect who builds such refined and precise structures has built such a faulty, swaying wall. Maybe that's what's breaking down behind my eyes; I can certainly feel each individual brick (is it made of brick?) totter and fall into my core, where it crumbles and leaves me covered in dust. If only I could speak to you; only for a moment. Just to hear your voice; just to see you smile. Oh, to see you smile at me, for me; to see you and know you see only me, too. I am so selfish, Christine. I would ask forgiveness, but what good is it? Why create another question to rot, unanswered, in my already ill head? Would you forgive me? Would you see past my sins; would you take my hand and tell me all is well? I do it for you, silently and secretly in my mind, though you do not need it. You are well.

Oh, how I wish it were a lie.

Come be ill with me, Christine. Share this ache in my head; stop it from spreading to my heart. I have no words to describe how pleasant that thought is. Hand in hand, we could stand (for I do long to feel your hand in mine, more than anything) and we could fall victim, together, to whatever has chosen to overcome us; to forsake us.

Perhaps it's true that misery loves company, but I want only your company, Christine, only yours.

Sometimes I wonder if I am only weak because I keep myself so distanced; I refuse to infringe on your happiness. I do long to mar the pristine harmony you have created with that boy; I long to corrupt you and force you to see that that same beauty can be found in darkness. But alas, unlike that simple young man you seem so fond of, I am a gentleman. Pity.

Forgive me (oh, but here we go again). Perhaps he, too, is a gentleman. Perhaps he knows you better than anyone; perhaps he loves you. His lips certainly find your own quite often enough. My, how could I have been so blind? Of course he loves you.

…

No, of course I do not smirk; I do not roll my eyes. But I wonder how deep his love for you is? As deep as the fetid water in my mug?

I'm sorry, my dear. A certain quote comes to mind – "The only evil in the world is that which we do not understand." Perhaps it's true. I do not understand that boy, after all.

But of course, I never claimed to be more than he. Never claim to be more than what you can show, yes? Living by the philosophies that destroy me – is it any wonder I give myself headaches? I guess I will never understand. How can he proclaim his undying love for you when he would not recognize you –when you were but a face in the crowd? Because you see, Christine, I am all too aware of you; your voice is, of course, one in a million. I don't know what love is (perhaps I lie); no one does. But God, I hope it's more than those simple gestures he makes.

I would like to give him a certain gesture.

I will bedevil you no more, Christine. I will do what I always do – fall to my knees and pray that God will show you darkness, or that he will show me light. Or at least let me feel it.

I long to feel something other than purportless hope. But seeing you renders me insensate, and I can't bring myself to sweep you into darkness.

Curse you, love.


	5. Chapter 5

I wonder how you are so wise in your innocence; so graceful in your ignorance. And I wonder why you're in my arms, and I wonder how your lips have found my own. From afar, perhaps we appeared to be dancing. I held you close, gently, swaying in the bliss that seemed to engulf me. Did it engulf you, too? But I was nearly blinded; my God, the light that shone in my soul. And I was starving. I felt a ravenous longing climb up my throat and reach out across my lips to draw you in close. My arms, around your waist, mirrored this movement and I felt you gasp softly at the unexpected closeness. I smiled against your lips and felt you wrap your arms around my neck, so gently; gracefully. You pulled me closer, deeper into the kiss. Somehow our dance had become something more, and the speed at which is occurred was pleasantly overwhelming.

I opened my eyes for a moment and looked down at you, just in time to see your own flutter closed. I almost wanted to speak, simply to tell you with words of the delight I felt; how brightly my soul was shining; how light I felt. But I could not find any such words, and even if I had I probably would not have been able to speak them; you tasted so sweet and I could not break away. I felt our gentle contact break, and you pulled back, keeping your eyes closed for a moment before allowing me to fill your vision. I met your gaze and you searched my eyes; you knew this was wrong. You opened your mouth to protest; you began to disengage yourself from our embrace, but I could not bear that and so I pulled you back; I kissed you again.

And you surrendered; whether or not it was what your soul desired I do not know. I only know that you did not pull away again; that you returned that kiss fully. You muttered something incomprehensible to my ears (what was it you said? Did you curse me? Yourself? Curse both of us; I would love nothing more than to be cursed by you, with you), and I was forced to take a step back as you pushed yourself against me. You sent my head spinning, and I made no effort to level myself. I felt your hands on my arms, my shoulders; my neck. And I felt my hands on your waist; your back; I felt you put yourself in my arms, and I felt myself embrace your presence.

I abandoned your lips, decadent as they were, and treaded down to your neck; I dusted your shoulder in kisses and I thought, Is there anything softer than this girl's skin? There is not, of course. I felt your fingers tracing the contours of my neck, dancing across my shoulders, sliding with intricate delicacy down my arms. I could feel myself burning; my entire body was on fire. It was the most delicious fever I'd ever known. I had not known how truly calescent I was, however, until I felt you dig your fingers smoothly into my jacket; I felt you push it away as if it were an irritating obstacle, an annoyance; a nuisance. And perhaps it was, because I could feel you so much closer without it.

I pulled you against me as if to underline this observation, and I heard you sigh as you rose up, consuming me. For a moment I acquiesced; I allowed you the gratitude of feeling me fall victim to your alluring aura. But then I pushed back softly, closing you between the wall behind you and myself. And then I was granted the requital of your complete surrender. You seemed tireless (though so was I in that moment – the kiss was so invigorating). You pulled me down against you; I felt a new surge of passion and hunger lock our lips together. I felt my hands tread up your back; I felt your hands caress my chest. You slid down against the wall as if you no longer retained the strength to support yourself. And you kept your arms locked around my neck and led me down, too; I felt any power and control I may have had drizzle away.

And I was aware only of you, and I was aware of how I held you; how close we were. I loved how you sighed in utter defeat. I loved how you became completely defenseless; I loved how we both came undone. I kissed you and I kissed you again, and I thought I'd been exalted to some unearthly level; maybe I'd reached heaven. I prayed for forgiveness for indulging in such a sin, but I didn't mean a word of it. I opened my eyes and looked down; you opened your eyes and looked up. I had only a moment to contemplate the irony before you spoke; before your voice soothed and caressed me as did your hands; your arms. I smiled; I was a simple child in your arms. "Heaven is made only for you and me," you said.

And then your dress slipped off your shoulder and I thought how pretty you looked.

That is the only dream I've ever had in color, Christine.


	6. Chapter 6

Another dream!

But this time we were dancing, Christine, you taught me to dance! Or did I teach you? I suppose it's really of no matter; we were dancing, and we both knew the steps. We were flawless, as if we'd practiced it endlessly for a thousand nights. It was so mellow; so soothing. And somehow I knew, for both of us, that it was our first time; we'd never danced that dance before, but we knew it so well. And it was snowing; oh, how it was snowing. I was not cold, though – no, my heart, my very soul, was deeply glowing. And it's no wonder – your palm was warm and soft in mine; I held you gently around the waist. Maybe you were unaware of the contact that sent me spinning into foolish rapture; you stared so deeply into my eyes. What beauty lies therein, Christine, in your eyes. I thought of flowers; I thought of roses. Such authoritative delicacy.

You gently dust my heart with your fingertips; your hand is in mine – it is a soul-link. Snow, then – do you like snow? You seem to. Bittersweet. For this moment cannot be only mine, only ours; you've shared in it once before. Perhaps you weren't dancing, but that doesn't dwindle the flame that existed. The one I harbored that is; some gnawing jealousy that ravaged me, inside and out.

But I disregard that as I hold you; I forget everything but you as we dance. I almost want a name for our graceful steps; I want a name for this moment that we may call our own. What do you name such a thing? And so I search your eyes for the answer; they never fail to satisfy me. Oh, but I see so many things; your soul soars unbounded, and I dare not try to capture it. I am bedazzled by your freedom. I pretend not to see the bruises on your wrists; I deny that I ever restrained you. Those marks are visible to no one else; I alone constrained you; I alone made an attempt to possess you. Ah, but what a fool I was (I am) – smoke cannot be caught. You drift just as easily as smoke, Christine, and burn my lungs so when I inhale you. But my god is it ever sweet.

I was not fortunate enough to have this dream in color, dearest.

But here is where I am capable of optimism; here is where the sun, unaided, can piece my ominous shadows. For I realize that one day there will be a moment of color; overwhelming brightness and brilliance for only you and me, if only for a day; a single moment.

And I'll be damned if I won't dream a thousand dreams in black and white until that one moment of color.

Remember, my dear, that I will wait. I will wait an eternity for you.

Always, love.


	7. Chapter 7

Do you know that sometimes it doesn't matter that dreams can never come true? I've come to a realization – and I will probably soon revert back to my former philosophies, but for now, I have a new belief (if it can be called that – what do I believe in, anyway?). I've just noticed how cracked and dry this cold weather makes my hands. It's as if they're threatening to break if I move them a certain way. No matter. They are of little use to me, anyway. What, with only serving the purpose of composing letters that the love of my life will never see. It's interesting, is it not? How easy it would be to throw this all away? But I could not bring myself to do it. Maybe only because of that one part of me that still childishly clings to the hope that you will someday read this. But then again, why would you? Why would you need to? You know me, right? Horridly ravaged by your existence; wallowing in the fetid waters of a love that never was, and I know never will be, mine? I am only a voice, after all. I am only a ghost for you. And it is not possible I could feel much more than regret for that; I only love you with what I am.

Well, no, dearest. I'm sorry, but no. I would not ever want to say it is so simple, even if it was. But you see, I'm a child. I'm completely ignorant in this realm of … what? Life? Is love part of life? Or is it something we make up? To think I made you up. To think God would allow me to destroy myself in such a way. What a sweet cruelty. Perhaps it is true, then. Perhaps I shouldn't tell you my dreams. Why? But you don't care; you can't care! But I did speak to you. Oh, god, I spoke to you. And for a moment, Christine, one moment, I swear I thought you cared. And I; I nearly fainted.

"You don't remember, do you." An accusation.

"Angel …" Oh, that silence you let linger. I will take with me to my grave the sweetness of your awed silence. I left you in stupefaction; do you know how terribly I've missed it? And what could I say! But my god, you were speaking to me; to me!

"Your voice," I begin to compliment you, though I am foolishly disappointed that your voice has thrived without me. You have thrived without me. I don't want to waste this moment drowning you in compliments. This is all too precious; too delicate. Think, fool!

"What do you regret?" I cry out. The words escape me mindlessly. I am so puerile. "What is it you regret most, Christine?" Somehow I know that time, our time, oh god, our sweet moment, is slipping away. And do I know when I will see you again? My hands quiver, and I feel ill. Answer me; please, answer me. Tell me there was a time when you thought I was something more. Tell me you're sorry we never made it. Tell me you wish it weren't so.

How terrified you look; poor child. What have I done to you? Did I yell at you; did I raise my voice? Did I stray too near? You are seized not by fear alone, but by the mere fact that you regret nothing. You are content; what more could you want? Dear lover, don't leave me here. But you can say nothing. I do wish you regretted something. I wish I could drag you down into this chaos with me, and I wish you knew no more innocence. This is the moment, the fleeting second, I have so longed for? It seems so much smaller than I had imagined.

You never answer because in he comes, and so I must retreat. I will not watch him kiss you again. I can no longer bear it, and for your sake, I suppress my jealousy. I resent the fact that you can regret for him – you regret you were ever away from him, you regret it took so long for your heart to find his, you regret his arms cannot be there endlessly to protect your fragile mind from intruders, like me. Why do you not regret anything between us? And by god, don't tell me there never was anything, because my instability is an open showcase of it every day. I love you, and I'm sorry you don't regret that you never loved me. I will eternally lament that, Christine.

But I tire. And so I have but one more thing to say; one more thing to offer you. You can never accept it because you will never know of it, and so any logic that may have existed here is gone. It didn't dwindle, it simply no longer exists. But I'm not leaving, dearest. Maybe you don't love me, but I will always be here. I can only ever love you, and that pains me as much as it does you. Does it pain you? I hope it does. Hate me then, if you won't love me. Hate me and make your best attempt to destroy me and my vulgarity because, quite frankly, your apathy makes me want to strangle you.

Would you be infuriated if I left you a bouquet of roses? Leaving one, and only one, at a time has become dull and you hardly blink anymore. Let me surround you in flowers. Let me tell you how many times I've said "I love you" knowing full well that you would never hear me. Let me hold you and whisper, "I know that somewhere there is a place in your heart for me."

I want you to regret it.


	8. Chapter 8

The dates are all mixed up and the clock

won't tell the time.

I suppose it doesn't really matter anyway;

I've stopped counting the days.

I guess you don't remember the plans we made,

unspoken as they were,

And I wonder if, when you notice that you may have forgotten

something very small,

You will ask forgiveness. Pity me?

I don't really need it, nor want it especially,

But you seem to pity so many others.

I want your regret, and I want you

to feel remorse for forgetting.

Maybe it would've been short; maybe it would've been

simpler than your smile

(beautiful simplicity – I do treasure it)

but it would have been me

and it would have been you.

It always would have been.

I wonder if I'm looking out a window;

I can certainly see out, and I can see that which

I long to take you from,

And I can see the snow as it falls, falls,

falls.

And I can see you; I can see the world from behind

this window.

It's not even foggy; it's not scratched or marred

in any way.

Maybe in one spot, where it looks like a child

has left a handprint; fingerprints, the snow has

frozen them in place.

Timeless,

Like a name etched in wet concrete.

I can stand at this window all day and watch,

and sometimes I feel like that's all I've done.

But I know, you know, we all know

that a window offers only a constrained view of what

exists.

Sometimes I see you, sometimes I don't.

Sometimes you appear, tangible, sometimes you don't.

Sometimes I wait, sometimes I wish, sometimes I pray.

Sometimes you're never there.

Can I ask what magic you abide by?

What morals?

Do you have any?

For you, I don't.

If only because I don't want to put any more confines

on what I have;

on you.

If I had such power,

however,

we would be over there, almost in that slant of moonlight,

but not quite,

and we would be writing a song.

Not me;

us.

I wish you didn't render me so optimistic.

I wish I wasn't so completely yours.

And I say this with the least amount of morbidity,

but if I am at a window, then please, let me open it

and jump.

Because part of me still trusts that it is into your arms

I will fall.


End file.
